


tense and slack

by ohtempora



Series: swerve [1]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Breathplay, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, NLDS Game 5, Under-negotiated Kink, Washington Nationals, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-12 11:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12958338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: "You can stomp around your fancy condo all you want," Jayson says. "Break some dishes, do whatever you need to do, I don't care. Or you come home with me. Okay?"Bryce stares at him for a long moment, exhaustion writ in tiny lines around his mouth, and then he says, "Yeah, okay."They'd been hoping for a celebration. Beer and champagne, the walls of the clubhouse taped over with plastic, goggles piled up for them, waiting. That's not going to fucking happen.





	tense and slack

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atlanticslide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlanticslide/gifts).



> happy yuletide, atlanticslide! many, many thanks to s. for the beta.

Bryce strikes out, and Jayson gets to watch it from the best seat in the house, fresh off getting the second out. Strike swinging, ball, foul— settle down, work the count— ball, ball— okay get on base just get on base— 3-2 count— swing, miss, out. Nats lose Game 5 again. Nats lose Game 5, 9-8.

Jayson leans against his locker. The media is there, ready to write about their fourth playoff loss in six years. "It's terrible," he tells them. Why mince words now? "I hate it." This is probably his last game on this team. Maybe his last in the MLB. He can't help but get choked up. "I can't believe we lost that game." 

In a couple weeks he'll be a free agent. Seven years in D.C. and they couldn't even get out of the divisional series. 

Thankfully once he gives the press the quotes they need, they pack up and leave. When Jayson closes his eyes he sees that ball going past him. It’s dumb— he’s been a ballplayer almost his entire life, and he knows one play doesn’t lose you a game. And yet.

Some of the guys are quiet and some are loudly pissed. A couple of them cracked open beers. He has a bottle of his own, gluten-free, but it doesn’t taste like much and he really only wanted to have something to hold in his hand while he spoke. They all strip off their uniforms and get back into street clothes, filtering out one by one. Who knows who’ll be back next season to try again. Maybe not him. 

Bryce is— God, he’s incandescently, adolescently mad, in a way that he seems too old for now, in a way that he can’t contain. He grits his teeth and gives all the right quotes, but then it’s pouting and slamming shit and Jayson knows it's not what the rest of the guys want to see. Knows that Bryce has worked on not being a hothead, not having that rep—

He goes over, takes the— batting gloves, alright— that Bryce was going to throw out of his hands. “Harp. C’mon.”

“No one's here,” Bryce mutters mutinously. 

“Enough were.” Jayson pushes at his shoulder, gentle, constant pressure until Bryce sits  "I'd say you need a blowjob and a beer, but you don't drink, so." Jayson shrugs. "First one, then, and I’ll warm you up some milk."   
  
"You're being an asshole," Bryce mutters, then looks up, fast. "Wait. What?"   
  
"You can stomp around your fancy condo all you want," Jayson says. "Break some dishes, do whatever you need to do, I don't care. Or you come home with me. Okay?"    
  
Bryce stares at him for a long moment, exhaustion writ in tiny lines around his mouth, and then he says, "Yeah, okay."

They'd been hoping for a celebration. Beer and champagne, the walls of the clubhouse taped over with plastic, goggles piled up for them, waiting. That's not going to fucking happen. 

“Anything else you need?” Jayson asks. 

Bryce shakes his head. “Just to get out of here.

The clubhouse is pretty well abandoned. Clearly their teammates had the same idea. 

“Okay,” Jayson says. “Get what you'll need for tomorrow and let's go.”

He wouldn't assume, in most cases, most times, but he knows Bryce, and he thinks he knows what Bryce needs. Bryce gets his shit together, his shoulders tense but the rest of his equipment safe from another tantrum, and they get the fuck out of the stadium.    
  
And Bryce is okay on the car ride until he isn't.  He starts to fidget and tap his foot and then he starts to talk. He breaks down the game, everything they did wrong to lose again, and Jayson thinks, you little idiot, you're 25. You've got a decade and a half ahead of you to win the whole damn thing. You can go to New York in 2018 and no one would blame you, you could stay here for $400 million and anything else you wanted and no one would blame you there, too. 

“I get you're pissed as hell,” he says. “But you need to let me drive. You want the radio on?”

“How are you not mad,” Bryce says. “We should have won that game— probably coulda won the series in four if we didn't play like idiots—”

“I know I missed that ball in the lights, thanks.”

“Fucking dumb—”

“Sometimes you just don't have it. The game gets away from you.”

“Couldn't even get on base.”

“And I struck out right before you did. Would have put the tying run for you on first.” Jayson slams the brakes, curses at someone making reckless decisions in traffic. “Look, I'm not taking you home so you can go over every mistake in excruciating detail. We got all offseason for that.” He looks over at Bryce, takes in his red eyes and tight, morose face. “So shut up.”

Bryce inhales, sharp, and shuts up. 

It lasts until they park the car. They're heading into Jayson’s house and Bryce starts up again, how they couldn't score with RISP when it mattered, the pitching— “You gonna say that in front of Max?” Jayson asks, with what ought to be a quelling look— and his own failure to extend the game with his last at-bat. Jayson just gets them inside, gets them into the kitchen. He isn't really listening to Bryce, he's taking step after measured step, and somehow Bryce is following behind him. He pulls out a beer and pops the top, drinks some of it and still doesn't register the taste. He grabs a can of seltzer from the fridge and holds it out to Bryce, who takes it and sets it down on the counter, back to critiquing their defensive play. Bryce doesn't say thanks.   
  
"Okay, I think you gotta stop talking," Jayson says. “We had a deal.” He pushes on Bryce's shoulder until Bryce sinks down to his knees, mouth open, face stunned. Jayson thinks— well, he knows Bryce. Bryce doesn't let people do this all that often. Jayson’s seen him take a guy home exactly once, and he’d sworn himself to secrecy the next day, Bryce feeling him out, wary, until Jayson let a few things slip too. 

But Bryce trusts him, and Jayson’s not going to ruin that. 

He unzips, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach he ought to be too old for. He shoves his jeans down until they’re tangled around his knees, rubbing his palm over the front of his boxers. When he pulls his dick out Bryce makes a small gasping noise and then his mouth is on Jayson, wet and eager. It's more enthusiasm than practiced skill, and Bryce gags around him before he figures out how much he can take. 

Jayson rocks his hips. He's getting there. But Bryce— he thought he'd get more from Bryce, for this. Thought maybe the tension in Bryce's shoulders would bleed out.

“Hey,” he says after another minute, squeezes Bryce’s shoulder. 

Bryce's brows furrow. He pulls off, wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. “What? I'm not, like, bad.”

Jayson’s not even going to go there. “Look, this isn't doing it for you, that's fine.” He lets  _ but give me something to work with _ hang unsaid, doesn't know how Bryce will respond to it out in the open. 

Bryce tilts his head. His mouth is red behind the beard. Jayson wonders if they should have kissed first, if he should have pressed their mouths together, wound an arm around around Bryce's waist. 

“It's alright,” he says. 

“I know that.” 

"Then let me know what you need," Jayson says, kind— he's trying to keep it kind— and tugs at Bryce's hair, hauls him up.  
  
They go to bed. Bryce undresses in Jayson's bedroom, leaves his clothes folded on Jayson's dresser. Jayson doesn't really know what to make of that one but he doesn't say a thing. When Bryce is done he sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded neatly in his lap.   
  
Jayson looks at him.   
  
Bryce's dick is hard and pink and just about as average-looking now as it's been when Jayson's seen him in the locker room. But he's wet at the head, leaking precome, which means he got hot mouthing at Jayson's dick, being put on his knees. His tattoo curves over his rib cage and Jayson thinks about getting his mouth on it, laying Bryce out and taking his time. 

“You got to tell me.” He doesn't know if Bryce will. “Please,” Jayson adds.

“I came home with you.”

“Yeah.” Jayson looks at him some more. It's a good picture. Bryce is flushed, turned on, face coloring behind his beard. “I can— I don't know. You want me to fuck you? I have stuff.”

“It's not,” Bryce says. He twists the sheets around his fingers. “Um.” He touches his neck, fitting his hand around the base of his throat. “Can you—” he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. He’s flushed a heavy, deep red, and Jayson knows, suddenly, what Bryce wants. He knows equally well he can’t say it out loud.   
  
"This cause of the thing? With…" Jayson gestures. No one's talked much about Papelbon since he left. But he remembers all of it: their shitty elimination from the playoffs less than 24 hours before, tensions high in the clubhouse and nerves rubbed raw, watching from afar as Papelbon wrapped his hands around Bryce’s throat.

Bryce blushes even darker before he nods.   
  
"Okay," Jayson tells him. He knows what to do now. "I had an ex back in Philly. It was a couple times— you want to tap out, you tap my head a couple times or smack my leg."   
  
"That works," Bryce says. Jayson shifts up the bed, straddles his thighs, licks his palm, and starts to jerk Bryce off. He knows he's heavy, pinning Bryce to the bed. Bryce's dick is slick with saliva and precome. It gets wetter as Jayson works him over, until Bryce says, “Come the fuck on, I thought you were gonna do it.”

Jayson stops. 

Bryce bucks up against him. It’s futile. Jayson’s got him pinned. He waits a long moment, until Bryce goes limp, and says, “Alright.”

“Alright what?” 

“Jerk yourself off, now.” 

Bryce looks at him, gaze heavy, and then he starts to touch himself, slow. “Good,” Jayson murmurs. “Do it like that.” He reaches up and fits his hand underneath Bryce’s jaw, not too much pressure, but Bryce moans. 

“You're gonna jerk it until you come,” Jayson tells him. “And then you're gonna get back on your knees and suck me off.”

Bryce makes a garbled noise of assent and Jayson presses harder against his throat. His thumb is under the hinge of Bryce’s jaw and he wonders if it'll leave a mark, right in the corner, a smear of red and purple telling the world that Bryce wanted him to do this. He looks at Bryce’s eyes. His eyelids are fluttering. He's stroking himself fast now, not making a show of it for Jayson, just trying to get himself off. 

A couple tears leak out, and Jayson reaches up with his free hand, catches them. He rubs his thumb over Bryce’s lower lip. 

When he lifts his hand up Bryce says, “Don't stop.”

“Say please,” Jayson says, and Bryce shudders all over but he does it. Jayson puts his hand back on Bryce’s throat and squeezes and Bryce makes a strangled noise and comes all over himself. His chest arches up off the bed, come striping his belly, and he looks like he's maybe let it all go. Jayson eases off him, eases back, and touches Bryce’s collarbone. There are spots that he thinks might bruise. 

Bryce is collapsed back into the sheets, and Jayson thinks he's almost there, but— almost, right? Not all the way. Bryce glances down at him, where he's straining against the cotton of his underwear, and says, “You getting off on it?”

“You looked good,” Jayson tells him. “You'd look better on your knees.”

Eyes hot, Bryce says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jayson says. He tugs Bryce up to sitting, kisses him, fitting his hand around the back of Bryce’s neck. Bryce kisses back, hard, pushing just as much as Jayson will let him. Bryce makes a noise against his mouth, not so much a moan as it’s a noise, and Jayson says, “I’m gonna sit on the edge of the bed now.”

Bryce slides down to the floor. He tilts his head up and yeah, those are bruises. Nothing dark, nothing that won’t be gone by tomorrow night, but that’s one in the shape of Jayson’s thumb, and another in the shapes of his index and middle fingers, and redness like a collar encircling his throat. He runs his hand through Bryce’s overlong hair, twists some around his fingers and tugs. He pulls his dick through the slit in his boxers, and Bryce’s eyelids flutter as he leans forward, mouthing at the head. Jayson lets his legs fall open wider, runs his hand through Bryce’s hair again and then touches the nape of his neck.

“I can see the marks,” he says, and Bryce moans around him, stuttery, surprised. He presses against the thumbprint. Not as hard as before, but hard enough. Bryce is bobbing his head, jaw lax enough that Jayson can thrust into his mouth. “You gonna do this tomorrow when you’re jerking off? Touch them like I’m doing now? Distract yourself?”

Bryce’s moan sounds like a yes, and Jayson wraps his hand around the back of Bryce’s neck. He's got big hands. He can cover a lot of ground. Bryce closes his eyes, and Jayson keeps rolling his hips, fucking into Bryce’s mouth, letting Bryce take it, holding on. 

He comes, and Bryce swallows it all, wiping his hand over the back of his mouth when Jayson’s done. Right now the exhaustion is setting in, and Bryce looks so tired, sitting back on his heels, Jayson’s fingerprints on his throat. 

“You don't have to go home,” Jayson says. “There's a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.”

“Alright,” Bryce says, and stands. 

He gets into bed with Jayson once he's done, rubbing a hand over his beard. Curls away from him, too, and Jayson thinks about saying something, but he doesn't know what it would help, and he closes his eyes instead.

All things considered, he sleeps well. 

When Jayson wakes up the next morning Bryce is passed out, arms wrapped around a spare pillow, snoring softly. He takes care not to disturb him, pulls on sweats and goes to make coffee. It won't be too hard for Bryce to come find him. 

Soon he'll have to call his agent. The Nats have decisions to make. Jayson thinks Dusty will be back, doesn't know if his own contract will get renewed. And it's been seven years, they've had success, and he's proud of what he's done— they could get it together the next year. They might. That's the same shit they told themselves in 2012 and 2014. 

Or he goes to the American League to DH. 

“Jay?” 

“Kitchen,” Jayson yells back, and Bryce appears a few minutes later, shirtless and in stolen pajama pants that Jayson’s had since Philly. His hair is a mess, and his beard covers most of the bruising, until he turns his head. It's darker than Jayson thought it would be. The marks are fingerprints. He knew intellectually they'd be the shape of his fingers, but— it's something else to see. 

Bryce says, “Hey.” His voice scratches when he speaks, and Jayson goes to the tap, gets him a glass of water.

“How you doing?” he asks. Bryce shrugs, doesn't speak, downs half the glass. 

Jayson says, “Okay then.”

He's not that hungry but he starts pulling omelet ingredients out of the fridge, something to keep his hands busy. Bryce is staring into the bottom of his water glass like it's whiskey. He reaches up to touch a bruise and Jayson cracks an egg, says, “I have cream somewhere if they hurt.”

“It's fine.”

“Just offering.” He cracks another egg. “You want two or three?”

No answer. “Three, then.” He cracks one more. Bryce doesn't say a word and Jayson makes them both omelets, plates them, toasts bread while he's at it. Mr. Domestic, except he's got a baseball star with a bruised throat and a pissy attitude at his kitchen table and not an adoring spouse who might actually say thank you. 

He lets Bryce eat— glaring at each bite like the eggs have personally offended him— before he says, “I'm not gonna tell anyone.”

“Obviously you aren't,” Bryce mutters. “You want another contract.”

Jayson raises his eyebrows. “Stop being a little punk.” He thinks about reaching out, settling a hand on Bryce’s neck. Not yet. “I'm not going to tell anyone about this either, Bryce.”

Bryce's fork scrapes across his plate and then he says, “You don't need to say it's fucked up. I already know.”

Shrugging, Jayson says, “Wasn't planning on it.”

“Papelbon choked me out on national TV.”

“ _ That’s  _ fucked up. And he’s out of the majors now while you're one of the best in the league.” Jayson exhales. “Don’t beat yourself up about what you like. Or what you need.” 

He says the last part offhand, but Bryce’s head snaps up. He’s just— sparking and sparking, a lit, fraying fuse. 

“It's so much pressure,” he says. “Do you have any— a goddamn clue what it's like— there's the expectation to perform all the time and be the right guy, and—”

“I know you were a self-involved kid when I signed with the Nats,” Jayson says. “But I have some idea about pressure, yes. And stepping up for the team.”

He knows Bryce wants to say  _ you're not as good as me  _ and, even all het up, probably won't. There’s something to be said for what he thinks of Jayson. There’s something to be said for what Jayson thinks of him. 

“What about everyone else?” Jayson asks. “You think there aren't 40 other guys kicking themselves over last night? You think you're the only one?”

“I should be—”

Jayson shakes his head. “Yeah, you should, because we all know exactly how good you are at baseball. And that you like being the star. You don’t wanna be Mike Trout, winning MVPs while the team goes nowhere fast. You want to be the guy.”

“He’s not even the biggest name in his own market,” Bryce says. “He’s on a team that made the playoffs once. Maybe they could have got in this year, but they would have gotten eaten alive soon as they did. He’s happy with that, and I’m just—”

“You go to the Yankees next year—” Bryce huffs, and Jayson holds up a hand. “You didn’t come up through their system. You’re going to be the big money free agent. They’ll expect the World Series and won’t give you an inch, when you’re their $400 million dollar man.” He pauses. “And you stay in DC, you get it too.”

Bryce huffs again, but his shoulders drop, and he says, “I want to. I want people to know it’s my team.”  

“Then you step up, you're not the teen hothead anymore, you know that reputations are earned.” Jayson looks at him some more. “I know it's easier said than done. I know you've heard it before.”

“You've told me before.”

“Yeah, me and Zimm and whoever.” Bryce is fidgeting, and Jayson says, “It's okay.”

They're silent for a bit. Jayson finishes the last bite of his eggs. 

Finally Bryce says, “What about the other stuff?” He reaches up, fingers brushing over his throat. 

Jayson gets up, takes a step so he's standing next to him. “If I'm here next year I'm here,” he says. He settles his hand around the back of Bryce’s neck and squeezes lightly. “Or I'm a phone call or text. Even if I'm in the AL.”

Bryce shudders, mouth dropping open. Jayson gives into instinct, brushes his thumb over Bryce’s lower lip. “We lost as a team,” he says. “Maybe I shouldn't have lost that ball in the lights. Normally I don't fucking do that. Maybe you should have got on base and fouled ‘em off instead of swinging. Maybe we shoulda pitched better. We all lost the game.” He lingers over the curve of Bryce’s lower lip. “Don't throw your glove where God and the press can see.”

He gets a small laugh for that, and he adds, “We all know you can get the team there, too.”

“I don't want to deal with it for another day or two,” Bryce says. “I know I have to.”

Jayson pushes against the thumbprint at the base of Bryce’s neck. “Yeah,” he says. “Every year until you win the big one.”

“Before we go anywhere,” Bryce says. He shudders again. Jayson doesn't move his hand. “Can we go upstairs?”

“That what you need?”

“It's what I want,” Bryce says, and pulls Jayson down to kiss him, hands twisted tight in his hair. 

“Don't laugh at me for this,” Jayson says. “I need to rinse out the egg pan first.” And Bryce does laugh, but it isn't bitter, and Jayson will take that for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Jayson Werth once called Jonathan Papelbon the [D.C. Strangler](http://ftw.usatoday.com/2016/06/jayson-werth-jonathan-papelbon-dc-stangler), so please do with that what you will.


End file.
